Page 25 of Waiting on Life
I pulled out my phone, because to sit here and stress wouldn’t do anyone any good.
Scott answered on the third ring. “No Angels, this is Scott.”
“Hey, Scott.”
“Kyle?” His voice grew soft. “You okay?”
“No concussion, but the doctor still wants me to rest a few days before I go back to work. I’m calling to tell Toby I’m willing to quit if he has to find someone else.”
A soft snort came through the line. “You’re kidding, I hope? Every time the phone rings, Toby asks if it’s you. He’s worried about you. I’ve seen him angry or exhausted or just plain scary, but I’ve never seen him worry. What did you do to him, and can you keep doing it?”
“Is that Kyle?” Toby’s voice asked from the background.
“Yeah, he just—”
Scott squawked, then his soft tones were replaced by Toby’s harsher ones. “What did the doctor say?”
It was nice to hear his voice, even with the annoyance in his tone. “He said I was okay, but he suggests I rest for a couple days. Don’t worry, I’ll come in and—”
“No.”
I swallowed hard. Of course the answer would be no.
“Oh, okay.” Even though I’d expected it, my heart sank. It was a new record for me to have a job less than a month and lose it. “Well, I guess I’ll see you around.”
“What? Wait a sec. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I think you’re scaring him,” Scott whispered, loud enough for me to hear. “He thinks you’re letting him go.”
“Hewhat? When did I say that?” Toby growled at Scott. Then he came back to the phone. “That’s not what you thought, right?”
“I…. Well, yeah. I mean, you haven’t gotten a day off, and now you had to work because of me, and—”
“Did I say you’re fired?” he demanded. “Well? Did I?”
“No, but—”
“But nothing. What happened wasn’t your fault, so why the hell would I fire you? That doesn’t even make sense.”
My heart dropped out of my throat and settled back in my chest. “So I still have a job?”
“Of course you still have a job. When the doctor clears you, I expect you to be back here, ready to work. You have a lot to make up for, you know.”
That last bit? It was said with a certain intensity. Like he was hurt or upset.
“I’m sorry.”
“Shut up. Get some sleep. I’ll stop by when I get home and check on you.” And with that, he hung up.
Pete came from the bedroom, went to the refrigerator, and grabbed a beer.
“Hey, where’s mine?” I groused.
“Nothing for you. Doctor said so.”
No beer? Screw that. I started to get up. “Fine, I’ll get it myself.”
“You do and I’ll tell Toby,” he warbled in a singsong voice.
